


enough to kill you (and other ficlets)

by boomerangst (SevereChill)



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Mood Whiplash: The Collection, One Shot Collection, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-09 22:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereChill/pseuds/boomerangst
Summary: Assorted mirsan oneshots collected from tumblr.





	1. enough to kill you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of those fun "Sango takes Kohaku's place" canon divergent things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Your father loves you very much, and would do anything to save you._   
>  _But I love you in a different way._   
>  _I love you enough_   
>  _to kill you._
> 
>  
> 
> —"Closer Than Sisters," _Penny Dreadful_  
> 

**i. gone**

There is no warning.

One morning they awake and she is gone, dissolved into thin air like the smoke from their campfire. No one knows how she slipped away without alerting Inuyasha, whose formidable senses should have prevented such a thing, or Kirara, always faithful, or Miroku, so keenly and secretly attuned to her every movement. She is simply _gone_ , as if there never was a demon slayer called Sango who smiled and cried and loved and fought beside them.

In her place is Kohaku.

He cannot say how he came to be there, but he is whole and real, the jewel shard gone from his neck. Kagome pronounces him _alive_ and _free_ , Inuyasha pronounces him _human, or smells like it, anyway_.

With his freedom comes the return of his memory, of blood and betrayal and _what have I done, Ane-ue?_

_Don’t be afraid, Kohaku,_ she said as he lay dying. _I’m right here._

But she isn’t any longer.

Where has she gone? Inuyasha sniffs at the heavy air, Kohaku cries in Kagome’s arms, and Miroku fears he knows the answer.

He prays to be wrong.

He isn’t.

 

**ii. trade**

“Let me see your face,” says Kohaku to the masked woman. Yesterday, he was a mindless puppet. Yesterday, everything was fine. Today everything in Miroku’s life is unwinding, picking up speed like an avalanche on its way downhill.

_Let me see your face_. Those words, spoken once again from amid a sea of slaughtered villagers. Spoken by the wrong voice this time, its register too low. Can this be real? Is he really standing here beside Kohaku, trapped in this horrible parody, this ghastly deja-vu?

Miroku doesn’t need to see her face to know it’s Sango. Of course it’s Sango. Even so, he wants to be wrong, and keeps wanting to be wrong right up until the moment she removes her mask and his last doubt, his last _hope_ , along with it.

He stays numb through it all—the crack in Kohaku’s voice ( _what have_ you _done, Ane-ue?_ ), the heaviness in Inuyasha’s hands as he hefts his sword, the glimmer of unshed tears in Kagome’s eyes. He watches Kagura’s feather drift upward, carrying the wrong demon slayer away in a slow, lazy spiral, and feels an emptiness no amount of meditation could achieve.

 

**iii. alone**

Whenever they are alone together, Sango’s mind is her own again. Naraku takes special pleasure in violating her with her own actions, her own words, coming back to her like Hiraikotsu, tearing into her like the arrows at the castle on the long-ago day they met.

“The human heart of the bandit Onigumo, the part of me that loved Kikyou, is gone from me,” he promises, low and gentle and malicious. “But the demon part—the newer part—the vile hearts of a thousand wretched youkai—that part desires someone else,” it starts as a murmur and swells to a high, cruel laugh. “Can you guess who, Sango?”

Long fingers are pale against the dark silk of her hair, barely stroking, as soft as spiders’ legs. Revulsion twists deep within her, but Sango does not flinch, does not recoil, cannot scream, can only curse him in vain from the shattered refuge of a mind he owns completely.

He chuckles, deep and despicable. “Hate me as you please, Sango. Only think of me. I love you for your hatred. So intoxicating,” he breathes her in, then, and exhales a miasma so potent that not even Sango’s mask could protect her, were she wearing it—but as a tool of Naraku, she doesn’t need to. Just another reminder of the way she lives or dies by his twisted grace.

Sango isn’t fooled by the dark whispers that worm their way into the cracks of her conscious. Her mind and body may belong to Naraku now, but her soul is still her own, and her heart is far away—with her brother and Kirara, with those she used to call her friends, with the one aggravating person she knows she can’t live without _._ This is the secret she guards above all others, the last, desperate shred of hope she clings to in this hell of her own making.

 

**iv. confusion**

Her days blur into a pattern of forgetting and remembering, an endless litany of tasks that range from menial to terrible. There is no grounding purpose to her life anymore—there is only the low buzz of the saimyoushou, the bruise-purple haze of miasma, Kanna’s mirror-flat stare and Kagura’s red-eyed one, always full of contempt and confusion. Sango had had what Kagura yearns for above all else: she’d had freedom, and she had given it up, had stepped willingly into the depths of bondage—and for what? _For Kohaku_ , she tells herself, but sometimes she has trouble remembering. Sometimes, when she looks at her red, red hands and remembers what she’s done, other thoughts intrude: _it wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t worth_ ** _this_** , and she hears the echo of Naraku’s laughter like an infection in her mind.

 

**v. promise**

In Miroku’s dreams, there is nothing—and then the nothing resolves itself into something, into some _one_ , into Sango. She is pale as death and twice as beautiful, and the sight of her pierces him through with a feeling he doesn’t dare name. He wants to scream at her, to comfort her and accuse her and ask her why she left. But all he can say is her name, _Sango_ , like a plea, like a prayer.

In his dreams, she looks at him with eyes no longer blank but full, as they used to be, of a sorrow that draws him in even as he tries to banish it. “Don’t let me hurt anyone else, Houshi-sama,” she whispers. “When the time comes, you must not hesitate. The others cannot do it. It is beyond them. But not you.”

Miroku puts his hands to her cold cheeks. “Don’t ask me to do this,” he pleads.

“I can’t,” he lies.

“I won’t,” he hopes.

Her eyelashes flutter against his jaw, as soft as ravens’ wings. “Promise me,” is all she says.

 

**vi. blood**

There’s a moment, the third time they meet as enemies, when Sango’s eyes light up with something like recognition. Her hands tremble on the hilt of her sword, as if somehow, everything Miroku feels has seeped into the substance of his staff and been transferred to her through the clash of metal on metal, a strange alloy of hope and regret, desperation and longing. The next second he’s down on the ground, blood in his mouth, snatched from death’s jaws by the blurry outline of Inuyasha, who sends Sango’s weapon spinning out of her hand before it can complete its arc. Inuyasha, who could sever the fragile string of her life with his bare claws if he so chose, if he were capable of making that choice (he isn’t.)

The opportunity slips away like a traitorous demon slayer in the night. Naraku looms behind Sango, not a puppet but the real thing, in the foul flesh. He cradles her to his chest, all barriers down. No red Tetsusaiga necessary—Sango is a more effective shield than even the most potent demonic energy.

She’s bleeding from a shallow cut on her forehead. She’s hurt and none of them can go to her, and that might be the worst part.

Naraku smears the red across her temple, just because he can, and locks eyes with Miroku. “Someday she will come to me painted in _your_ blood,” he says, a soft benediction. “And on that day she will truly be _mine_.” The softness rips away in layers until the last word is a raw snarl.

That night Miroku’s dream is more vivid than before. Sango presses her head to his chest, still as death and twice as gentle. Her forehead is unscathed but she smells like blood, acrid and metallic and wrong. “Promise me,” she pleads again.

 

**vii. damage**

The fifth time they meet as enemies is different. This time, the recognition in her eyes is definite. It’s quickly eclipsed by horror when her sword swings for his neck anyway, arms moving against her will in the same deadly dance they’re accustomed to. She was trained almost from birth to be a weapon, honed and sharpened and polished to perfection, only to end up in Naraku’s arsenal. What chance did a clumsy, inept monk ever really stand against such lethal grace?

Miroku knew it was only a matter of time before he slipped up. He almost welcomes the pain of her blade slicing into his shoulder. Because what more harm can she really do him? What could be worse than leaving?

 

**viii. somewhere**

Sango can’t stop reliving it. The whistle of her blade through the air, the change in pressure as it met resistance, the soft liquid sound as it cut through flesh. It plays over and over again in her head, with Naraku’s laughter for a soundtrack. He’s there, in every corner of her mind—there’s nowhere she can go to cry alone. She can’t believe she ever thought her feelings could be kept safe and secret. Of course he knows. Of course he watched from behind her eyes and directed her hands to harm Miroku. Of course he did.

Kagura is pacing by the entrance to today’s cave hideout, ignoring her. Good. Sango presses her cheek to the cool stone and pretends Naraku can’t feel it too, can’t hear her stifled sobs as she imagines them all, sitting around a fire somewhere while Kagome patches up the awful wounds Sango inflicted.

 

**ix. of note**  

The sixth time they meet as enemies is notable for several reasons.

Naraku, no doubt preoccupied with all of the cutting wind and razor-sharp diamond and weaponized _pure void_ being thrown in his face, releases his hold on Sango. Not permanently—such a thing is impossible, now—but long enough.

Sango, in turn, releases her weapons—Hiraikotsu thudding to the ground beside her sword—and stands before Miroku unarmed, palms open and beseeching. Vulnerable and desperate and _herself_.

“Come with us,” begs Miroku, holding her the only way he can—at staff-point. The anguish in his voice tastes all wrong. “We can keep you safe.”

“You’ve got it backwards,” says Sango, with a small, bitter smile. “If I go with you, it’s all of you who won’t be safe.”

Miroku searches for the words to reassure her, to prove her wrong, but all he can think of is the way her lower lip is trembling. Why has his honey-tongued eloquence deserted him now, at this crucial juncture?

“Houshi-sama,” Sango’s voice cracks on the familiar title. “Houshi-sama, you know what you must do.” She takes a step forward.

Miroku steps back. “ _No_. Sango, you can’t ask this of me.”

“But I _am_ asking it of you.” She’s almost whispering past the sob caught in her throat. “You’ll never defeat Naraku as long as I’m alive. He’ll use me as a shield, as he has in the past. You know that.”

Miroku wants desperately to deny it, to rationalize it away.

“Houshi-sama, this may be your only chance.” She picks up her discarded sword and holds it out to him, hilt first. When he doesn’t take it, she presses it into his cursed hand. “Don’t let me hurt anyone else. Please.”

She’s so close, filling up his field of vision. Miroku has to shut his eyes. “I… _can’t_.”

“Yes, you can.” He feels her small, cool fingers ghost over his cheek. “I’d rather die by your hand than live a slave,” she whispers. “Do it, Miroku. _Please_.” Her other hand, wrapped tight around his over the hilt of her sword, lets go, lingering gently over his knuckles.

When he opens his eyes, she’s the only thing in the world. Sango, bringing the point of her own sword to hover just above her chest. Sango, who’s looking at him as though he’s the only thing in _her_ world, too. Sango, who just called him by his name.

Miroku’s cursed hand is trembling as hard as his voice as he says, “I love you,” and drives the sword into her heart.

Her fingers grip the fabric of his robes with the last of their strength as he lowers them both to the ground, brushes the hair back from her face.

“You sure are scary having as an enemy,” he manages to say past the lump in his throat. “I’m glad we’ll soon be friends again.”

She smiles.

 

**x. understanding**

When Miroku wakes, he keeps his eyes closed, just for a second, and pretends that the world is right again—or at least less wrong. He will open his eyes and it will be Sango’s face he sees across the ashes of the fire, not Kohaku’s. The throbbing wound on his shoulder will have come from a demon, an ordinary creature like the ones they encounter every day. Kagome will laugh, and Shippou will antagonize Inuyasha, and Sango will glance over, like she does sometimes, and meet Miroku’s eyes just for a second—a soft glance, charged with the peculiar and tender _understanding_ that exists just between them.

 

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for Mirsan Week 2017, day 3: "promise + red." 
> 
> Literally the only thing I like about this one is the way it fits neatly into 10 parts, but if you disagree feel free to fight me about it on [tumblr](https://boomerangst.tumblr.com/).


	2. tuesday at nine eight central

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [monty python voice] and now for something completely different
> 
> this one was originally posted on Father's Day 2017

Miroku wasn’t sure whether they were going to play up the “twins” angle or the “stay-at-home dad” angle, but it turns out the answer is both.

**Coming up on Dance Moms: seeing double! Do twice the new team members spell trouble for Paisley and Andrea?**

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet the newest members of the Stacy Langley Dance Center’s elite competition team!” says Miss Stacy in a voiceover. (This is played over shots of Miroku’s girls looking focused and intimidating, of course.)

“It’s obvious that she’s trying to replace Paisley,” frets a middle-aged, bottle blonde talking head in the next shot.

**Plus: Dance Mom shakeup! How will the moms cope when a Dance _Dad_  joins the team?**

And there’s his own face, most charming smile plastered in place as he shakes the French-manicured hand of another washed-up socialite-turned stage mother.

“I thought the show was called ‘Dance  _Moms_ ,’” sneers a gaunt woman called Heather while the other mothers side-eye Miroku in silent agreement. “What is he doing here?”

“I’d do him,” admits another mom in her camera confessional. Great. Sango’s gonna  _love_  that.

The last few cuts and voiceovers are rapid-fire: twirling dancers, angry moms, crying girls, red-faced instructor. Miroku’s face flashes across the screen again, brow furrowed in what looks like dismay but is actually feigned sympathy for Erica, the mom who’d been telling the others all about a particularly trying visit from her oil tycoon in-laws.

And then the opening theme music fades in, announcing the beginning of his reality TV debut. Miroku heaves a sigh and looks down.

“Well,” says Sango from her place on the floor, leaning against his legs, “it could have been worse. At least the girls looked nice.”

“Very solemn and professional,” agrees Miroku. “I wonder where they get that from?” He pokes his wife in the ribs, eliciting a hum of amusement before she shushes him in order to hear the TV.


End file.
